Sunday, February 27, 2011

 Yesterday at work I sat and listened to a carpet cleaner talk about his aunt's annual income. "12 million dollars a year," he said. "She lets me take out her fishing charter. I have a trust fund." I looked down at my black work shoes covered in scuff marks. The laces on the left are frayed and about to tear off. I thought about how even when I don't have money to buy food I can somehow still validate the purchase of a book.

Later, after the evening had taken a series of interesting turns, I wound up in the small apartment of a local musician who played me some songs he was working on. Everything in the apartment was visible from where I sat on the couch. His deck was littered with old VHS tapes: Man on the Moon and Fievel Goes West stuck out for some reason. The coffee table was littered with empty beer bottles, two full ashtrays and empty packs of American Spirits. There was a bag of expensive looking weed, two glass pipes and an earmarked copy of A Streetcar Named Desire. I played one of his guitars with a broken string and the music he played was the most moving I've heard in a long time. When I asked to use the bathroom I heard water running. "Is someone taking a shower?" I asked. "Oh, no," he said. "The shower just doesn't turn off. It always runs." 

While we talked he smoked a joint and I couldn't help but wonder if I looked out of place, still dressed in my work clothes, bright and ironed, sinking into his soft brown couch covered in laundry and recording equipment, drinking the beer he offered me. Whether or not I did, I never felt unwelcome. 

What a wonderful place, I thought. 

Afterward, I wound up at a pool hall where a drunk girl yelled at me, "Hey, do you like Asian girls?" I told her that I mostly just liked people in general. A man with no front teeth put his arm around her and said, "Wrong answer, Buck-O."

The bartender and I tried to find the most nonsexual ways to reference pool, but, no matter how you look at it, pool has only disgusting terminology.

Eventually we went to dinner at a restaurant where we met a rude vet. She started complaining about a bad date she had. As chance would have it, the guy who took her out was sitting at the table right behind us. My friend asked her what his name was and then loudly called him over.

I asked her if she would ever want to work on elephants and she said, "Ew. No. Dogs are the only animals I like." 

I think she is going to be a terrible veterinarian. 

My friend came late to the restaurant having been at a play earlier in the evening. We ran into an actress and a stage director from the show who took down my phone number and invited us out to karaoke. I never made it to that bar, but if I had, I would have sung "Fly Me To The Moon." They called again later and invited me to a party. When I turned to say goodbye to the group I was with, there was a polar bear running toward me. It was only a man in a suit, though.

The girls didn't know anybody at the party. It was 1920's themed. In my work clothes, I blended seamlessly in with the other guests. I met a girl who was eating a banana and when I asked her about it (bananas are an odd party food) she said it was the best cure for hiccups. I asked her if she brought the banana as an anticipatory act. "Do you always keep fruit on you for worst case scenarios?" She laughed and asked how I knew Sarah. "Who's Sarah?" I said. The girl gave me a look and said "It's her birthday?" I then met a girl with bright red hair and we traded French for Sign Language. She also asked me how I knew Sarah. "Who's Sarah?" I said, and she laughed because she thought I was kidding.

I got drunk. On the way home I remember the girls asking me questions I shouldn't have given them answers to. I don't think I ever met Sarah, but she throws a great party. 

This morning I went out for my usual Sunday breakfast at The Flying Biscuit. My waitress was a woman named Taroola. When she brought out my omelette she set down a bottle of Mexican hot sauce and said: "Would you like some Cholurah from Taroola?" and then she laughed. I loved it. 

The world is the strangest place I've ever been. I'm really beginning to enjoy myself.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

First date

Her mouth pulled, pursed, into a conflicted slant. Sideways. She was biting into her bottom lip. A smile, a frown, I couldn't tell which. It said, You're very sweet. But I could never, ever love you. That, or she was a lesbian.

Friday, February 25, 2011

Ringing. Every sound I have ever heard, ever. Shuffle, slam, open, alarm, ding-, Hello? Backing out, a high mechanical squealing. Front door lock, sticks, click, crunch. The sliding glass door is stuck but you get the idea. I don’t like the bathroom, I don’t like the space, why is it so old, why is everything so wrong, why aren’t you listening, why is this like this? Sorry, please consider us. Ring, Hello? Can you help me? I need an apartment. Hello do you have any apartments? Hi. Ya’ll have a place to live? Hello? Yes, in the vents, there’s mold. There’s mold in the vent. Hi I need you to fix this, hello, I have a request, yes, yes, yes, can you fix this? I need you to fix this, you have to fix this. And then this morning at 6:30 you wanted and then again at nine and now, stop, don’t wake me up, stop, I need to sleep, I need you to stop. Why did you come here at all? Why did you come here? Why, and then to me, elsewhere: Where were you last night, hey you never showed up, Oh, yea, sorry something happened, and then, and, and, and hey, where did you go, hey come over we’re all going to smoke and, hey, do you play music, hey do you know that song, hey come here, hey, come lay in bed with me, hey thank you for the drink, hey
 Will you drive me to my car? 

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Dear Subtlety,

Where are you?


- Ian 

Friday, February 18, 2011

Existential Board Games.

Today in my acting class we played a game called "Bang." And no, it's not as fun as it sounds. In "Bang," a single person stands in the middle of a circle of people and, using their "gun finger", spins around in search of a target. When found, the shooter (remember, it's only a hand gun. Literally, a gun made out of a hand) says "Bang" and fires imaginary bullets. Imaginary bullets, as it turns out, are very slow. The intended target actually has the ability to duck said imaginary bullets. We could all probably duck imaginary bullets -- if we were so inclined. You would think this was the end of the round, but don't worry, it's not. A democratic process follows the discharge of the "fire" arm. A vote is undertaken to see if the duck was fast enough for the imaginary bullets.

Regardless of the vote, this is not an effective method of execution, unless the quarry forgets to duck the bullets, which is often, as the game itself is very boring.

If it's decided the mark didn't duck in time, then they are killed, and have to move to the center of the circle  to assume the role of executioner: a vengeful ghost with an imaginary gun and very slow (but not too slow) imaginary bullets.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

"New Astronomy"

My hands are the solar system,
Because thumbs are not planets
And Pluto is not a finger.

When you were the sun,
Everything was always
On fire.

When you left,
Botany stopped
Being interesting,
And Narwhals
Finally understood
What it's like
To have cold weather.

But probably,
That was before they went extinct.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Hello World,

I am jacked on green tea and chocolate chip cookies.